17th January, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland
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The shorts France had set out to buy as soon as the shops opened for the day are soaked through with mud, and there are splashes of it across the backs of his legs, his arms, and clumps hanging from the ends of his hair. His shins are purpling with bruises where they aren't turning blue from the cold, courtesy of a brutal and highly illegal tackle by Duncan (resorted to, Scotland's sure, when he realised there was no way he was going to be able to get the ball off France whilst still sticking to the actual rules of the game).
It's not exactly a good look on him, per se, but the sight of him – filthy and bedraggled – leads Scotland's mind inexorably towards hot water, and thenceforth to small enclosed spaces, the sharing thereof, and then finally lathering.
Finally and repeatedly the extended lathering, playing in a full colour, high definition, endless loop through Scotland's mind. He tries to interrupt it with more solicitous thoughts, such as ice packs for France's poor battered shins and digging out the Deep Heat for the shoulder he keeps mentioning that he's sure he's sprained, but they only serve as mere blips in the far more entertaining lathering cycle.
"I don't think it'd be a very good idea," France says out of the blue; the sound of his voice putting a far more effective brake on Scotland's obsessively repetitious thoughts than any of his own attempts.
"What wouldn't?" he asks, puzzled, and wondering if his preoccupation might have caused him to miss some previous attempt at conversation which might have given France's comment enough context that it made any kind of sense.
"The thing that you've been thinking about for at least the last ten minutes," France says, arching one eyebrow high. "Which I'm almost certain involves showers in some capacity."
"Jesus Christ," Scotland hisses, genuinely a little spooked by how easily France has seen through him. "I was pissed off yesterday that you can't read my mind, and it turns out you could all along. That puts you at a very unfair advantage, mo chridhe."
"I didn't need to read your mind; your face made everything very plain on its own."
Scotland has the horribly uncomfortable feeling that he might have been leering without realising it. He attempts to school his expression into something approaching neutrality before he continues with: "Even so, I can't see why it's a bad idea, though."
France sighs. "Personally, I can't think of many better at this moment, but you would no doubt come to regret it, mon coeur."
"No, I fucking wouldn't," says Scotland, who has, in his opinion, let himself miss far too many opportunities to get France naked already of late.
"Maybe not," France concedes, "but you would be disappointed in yourself, would you not?"
France, damn him, is entirely correct on that score, Scotland bitterly concludes. They might have had one good night and one good morning together, but that's nothing but a blink of an eye in comparison to what they're working against. Despite temptations, he still wants to be sure, and it's far too early for any certainty yet.
"Bloody hell," he says, suddenly annoyed at France for being so reasonable and even more so for being right. "I suppose I'll just have to content myself with washing your fucking football kit, then, won't I?"
"I didn't…" France cuts himself off abruptly, the colour in his cheeks rising, but Scotland seemingly discovers some previously unknown talent at telepathy in himself, too, because the end of that sentence appears fully formed in his mind, as clear as day.
"Know I knew how to work a washing machine?" he thus finishes for France. "Jesus, why does everyone seem to think that? How the hell do you all think I manage to clean my clothes otherwise? I'm hardly going to keep shelling out for the laundrette when I can do it myself, am I?"
France's flush deepens, and he looks abashed enough that Scotland takes pity on him. "To be fair, I didn't have the faintest fucking clue how to do it when I first moved out," he admits; a terrible truth that hitherto only he and Wales had ever been party to. "England used to do everything around the house – none of the rest of us could ever reach his exacting standards – so I never learnt how to use anything like that which was invented after the eighteenth century."
The way the corners of France's lips twitch upwards slightly encourages Scotland to continue. "I mean, I could take a washing machine apart and put it back together again, no problem, but using it still completely baffled me. First time I tried, I didn't realise you had to get special detergent to put in it, so I just used washing up liquid. Didn't exactly work out too well, as I'm sure you can imagine."
France snorts indelicately.
"I had to get Wales up here in the end to talk me through it," Scotland says, on a roll now, and encouraged by the breadth of France's smile to keep on making a fool of himself for his continued amusement. "Which, I hope goes without saying, England can never know about. He ended up staying the whole weekend so he could show me how to iron and so forth, as well."
France snorts again, and then mutters something that is rendered almost entirely unintelligible by the chuckles he's clearly trying to subdue.
Scotland does, however, catch the word 'housewife' quite clearly, and he scowls. "For fuck's sake, don't you start on that, too," he snaps irritably. "We get enough of that from Ireland already as it is."
It's been many years since he spoke to France so harshly, and he almost feels guilty for the brief moment before France gives up struggling and gives into his laughter.
Scotland can't remember ever having made France laugh for so long or so loudly, and he feels so ridiculously pleased with himself as a consequence that it doesn't seem to matter that that laughter is at his expense. On impulse, he slings one arm around France's shoulders, drawing him against his side.
He half-expects France to wriggle away, complaining about how dirty and sweaty he is, even though he's in no better state himself. He doesn't even hesitate, however, before wrapping his arm reciprocally around Scotland's waist and moving even closer.
They remain that way for the rest of the walk home.